He let out a soft caw and banked to the left, his wings beating in a slow, steady rhythm. Every beat sent waves of ice mana cascading upon the forest, obliterating entire swaths of elementals and ancient trees. The cold was so intense that the trees that weren’t sliced apart literally burst as the moisture within froze. Jagged waves of shrapnel scythed down more trees and elementals, sending the latter into tumbling, clattering heaps. Their bones shattered into tiny fragments that melted under the cold, turning into a white powder that coated the frozen ground. "Not so close," I muttered as a particularly large wave threatened to flatten our small clearing. I watched for a little while, satisfied that he had the situation under control. I turned my attention back to the battle between Fable and the dragon. The black mist, dust, and golden aura completely obscured them from my view, so I opened the Primordial Mark, peering through Fable’s eyes. His senses worked far differently than mine, relying on a blend of sound and smell in addition to sight, giving a far more complete picture than my own. The dragon’s skeletal tail whipped through the air, catching Fable on the jaw and sending him stumbling backward. Fable retaliated by lunging under its guard, literally slipping into its exposed ribcage. The dragon roared as he began to tear it apart from the inside, rearing up and clawing at his own chest to dislodge him. Bone splintered and broke, caving in around Fable in a prison of razor white and black, but he simply tore through, lunging out of its chest with a triumphant howl. The dragon swayed, black mist spewing from its shattered chest, but it didn’t fall. The mist swirled, pulling in more ambient mana and drawing from the dragon’s core to begin the slow process of regeneration. The dragon’s soul burned with a cold, lifeless hunger, so different from Fable’s passionate, living soul. They were both eighth level, but the difference in nature was telling. The dragon was a construct of undeath and negative energy, a puppet on a string. Fable was a living being, with all the strengths and weaknesses that entailed. It wasn’t even the dragon’s claws or snapping jaws that caused most of the damage, but the thousands of sword-like bone fragments that jutted from its titanic carcass. Just running along its spine left his paws cut and battered, exposing him to the seeping black mist, which inhibited his natural regeneration, forcing him to rely on constant casts of Purify to remain in the fight. But the dragon wasn’t exactly holding up either. It had lost countless pieces of its body over the course of the fight, and while some of it regenerated, it was doing so at a much slower pace than Fable. Every time he destroyed a piece, it took a few moments for the black mist to gather enough undead mana to reform it. Time that Fable spent ripping through the exposed gaps, doing real damage to its core bone structure. But none of it really mattered. From the look of things, the two had the fortitude to battle for hours, maybe even until the sun went down. The real problem was me. My soul held oceans of mana, but sustaining support over such a long fight was physically exhausting. Adaptive Resistance helped some against the Black Mist, doing just enough to balance the loss of life force when combined with Purify. But it was a constant drain on my strength to burn it away over and over again. Worse was that R’lissea, Gayron, and Korra drew on my strength as well. From how much mana they sucked through the Nexus, their fight might have been even more intense than ours. I could feel the toll it was taking on my body. I was breathing heavily, my legs ached, and I was starting to feel a little dizzy. Magic protected me from the elemental forces raging around, but the simple glare of the sunlight off the gleaming ice was giving me a headache. As the minutes dragged by, I began receiving reports from the demons I’d scattered across the eastern border. Black Mist had poured into the forests of Syvarus, surrounding the towns and villages. The sky was dim, the air heavy. Elves peered through their windows, concerned etched across their faces. "They come," Incinderus rumbled. "Destroy what you can, but prioritize protecting the villagers." As Risen began to shamble from the trees, demons rose to meet them. As per Incinderus’s suggestion, only evolved demons were allowed anywhere near the black mist. Scions had too little resistance to the necrotic power that sought to drain their lifeforce. Mixed in with the evolved demons were soldiers of the Last Light Company. Perhaps for the first time, they fought side by side. It was chaotic, with neither side trusting their back to the other, and spells and techniques flying in every direction. I took a deep breath, drawing on the depths of my soul and projecting the Nexus onto the weaker demons and soldiers caught within the Black Mist. They didn’t truly need help against the hordes of Risen, but Adaptive Resistance would strengthen their souls, letting them remain in combat just a little longer before they were forced to flee and recover their strength. I slipped into Fyren’s mind, shivering in pleasure as the warm, smoky scent of ash filled my nostrils. He was prowling through the trees in his demon form, the black mist curling around his feet. A silhouette appeared in the darkness ahead of him, a tall, lanky figure dressed in a ragged black cape and tarnished armor. An elf, or at least, he used to be. His flesh was gray and rotted, his eyes empty black voids. "Found you," Fyren rumbled, sparks dancing around his claws. Updates are released by 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕·𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎·𝚗𝚎𝚝 The elf turned, a long, corroded blade appearing in his hand. It spoke, its voice cold and raspy. "You’re not supposed to be here. These villages were ours." Fyren’s face twisted in what I knew was a demonic expression of surprise. "You speak. Do you reason?" "Only when my Lord commands it." "I see. Then you’re not a slave. Allow me to release you from your burdens." The lich lunged forward, blade carving a line of darkness through the air. Fyren snorted and casually swatted it aside. Mana clung to his claws, creeping down the blade. Wherever it touched, the metal crumpled, disintegrating into pure white ash. The Lich stumbled back, shaking the blade, but the erosion continued until it reached his hand. It stared dumbly as its rotted flesh and armor followed, slowly consuming it from the wrist to the shoulder. "You’re...how...?" It seemed confused, not at all concerned with the fact that it was actively being reduced to ash. "My Soulstake. It’s not responding." "There’s no place in this world for demons, much less the dead. Rest, warrior. May your next life bring you an end better than this." I felt just as confused as the Lich, only for a different reason. Why was Fyren speaking as if it was going to die here? Liches didn’t have a physical body, after all. But as I watched, the shattered husk that made up its soul didn’t fade back into the Black Mist. It just...dispersed. Devoured by Fyren’s mana just as the rest of him had. "Fyren...?" I pressed the question on him. "What did you do? What about its Soulstake?" "Ah, Xiviyah. You’re watching." He hummed faintly, already moving through the woods again. From his thoughts, he’d received word from one of his underlings of the location of another lich. "I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The means I use cannot be replicated, not by the demons or mortals we have here. Please do not ask me more than that." I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. "I’m sorry for intruding. I didn’t mean to pry." A huff of amusement. "No matter. Rest assured, we’ll see things through here. The Undead Hero seemed to have been expecting an easy victory and barely sent any high-level undead. How are things there?" I sent a stream of Soulspeak, brushing over my conversation and the battle with the Undead Dragon. I didn’t have any demons near the city, so there was nothing to report about the fight between the elves and Risen, or my friends. A distant rumble undercut the shockwaves around me, thrumming deep in the earth. I withdrew from the primordial mark, casting an anxious look over my shoulder. That hadn’t come from Fable, Borealis, or the dragon, but the city. "Fable, let’s hurry this up," I said, pressing my worries upon him. "If things end there, they’ll come here. Then they’ll see." Fable’s roar ripped through the air, matching the ferocity of the dragon. Borealis still held the perimeter against the undead elementals, giving me some breathing room. I took a breath, mustering the last of my mana. Another roar. I took a breath, closing my eyes and looking through his senses. He’d pushed the dragon almost a mile away, flattening everything for thousands of feet in their path. He bled profusely from countless wounds, staining the ruined forest crimson. The dragon coiled like a serpent, lunging at him. He dove aside, letting it eat a mouthful of earth and broken trunks. When it raised its head, it left a crater some fifty feet deep. Just as it readied for another strike, I drew on the Oracle of Eternity. "Be still!" I cried, clasping my hands together. A pulse of mana erupted from my soul, traveling over the forest, even the world. Time stood still, the stars of fate peeking from behind the curtains. Fable stood before the motionless dragon, a glimmer in his eye. For a single heartbeat, all was quiet.